


Sex Ghosts

by epochryphal



Series: Shopping Universe [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: ADHD John, Autistic Character, Biting, Choking, Established Relationship, Finger Sucking, Frottage, Humor, M/M, Mirrors, Necks, No Genitals, Nonbinary Character, Oral Fixation, Other, Pants, Praise Kink, Semi-Public Sex, Spit Kink, Stone Character, Subspace, Tears, Trans Character, Transstuck, Verbal Restrictions, bystander consent worries tangle, casual homestuck ableism, everybody's having fun i promise, not exactly breathplay but so much breath stuff, or well no descriptions thereof, top processing, way too many memes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-06
Updated: 2016-07-06
Packaged: 2018-07-21 21:38:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7405789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/epochryphal/pseuds/epochryphal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dirk and John aren't exactly sure how they ended up in this changing room stall, but now they're here and the friends they came to hang out with are in the stalls around them, and maybe that's hot in a way they don't want to think about too hard and the prospect of doing something they probably shouldn't is a little too appealing to ignore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sex Ghosts

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Khemi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Khemi/gifts).



> ((^prompt of perfection by khemi))
> 
> so this got out of hand
> 
> one million credits to my muse/beta/lifesaver [@ExMoose](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ExMoose)/[@thislousytshirt](http://thislousytshirt.tumblr.com) for helping me tame the john monologue (johnologue), for responding to “omg i want to write [x] but it’s way too silly” with “PUT IT IN”, and also for insisting i in fact keep the description of “a post-a7 au where shopping exists apparently”
> 
> and one credit to myself for refusing to let john use the phrase "ween touching," john no

Well _this_ isn’t how you expected your day to go.

Dirk looks equally stunned by this turn of events -- or, well, no that’s just his face, isn’t it.  Mister Flat Face (effect? affect?) and all those other words he and Rose go on about.  Yeah yeah huge brains.  Point is, he’s just standing there, same as you, arms shoved full of clothes same as you, shoved into the same tiny changing room stall as you and _yeah no this is weird what._

Not that you haven’t seen him naked or, y’know, been the entire reason for said nudity and also stripped the clothes off his body personally yourself with your own two hands, but that was very much in private and also, nobody else knows about that because nobody needs to know because it’s private!  And not a thing, like, specifically established as so very not a thing.  And the way it manages to stay not a thing in _this_ clusterfuck of people?  By _staying private._

“Guys!  What the hell????”

Giggles.  Giggles everywhere.  Evil, cackling giggles.

You are getting the distinct feeling you have been gambited.

“What seems to be the matter, oh grandson of mine?”  Wow, Jane, that totally non-mirthful tone of voice is soooo reassuring.  Zero suspicions are happening, not with you with next door.

“Oh, I dunno,” you say, tone full of how you do indeed know.  “Maybe I’m just a bit confused!  Excuse me, little old lady, where am I and why?”

“Honestly, John,” because ah yes, where would you be without Rose doing the dry, ever-so-high-above-mischief voice from across the room?  Not here is where.  “I realize we transitioned rather quickly, but surely you are familiar with dressing rooms and their purpose?”

“See, that’s what I thought!  Which makes this the weirdest thing.  Somehow, I could’ve sworn you told me we were going straight to the video game section, you traitorous butts!!!”  Yes, fist-shake at the air where no one can see you.  Fist-shake their betrayal to the hell where it belongs.  Where the fuck is Dave’s loyalty?  And where the fuck is _Dave_?

“Aw, we’ll get there, Johnny!”  Shit.  Your righteous tantrum against butt-traitors is instantly deflated by one second of Roxy’s cooing.  Curse her perfect friendleadery ways.  Except not, never bad wishes for your sort of datefriendy person.  Shhhh, only blessings for Roxy now.  “Cross my heart and hope to d—hmmmm no, hope to _have respawn lag over a minute_ , we will be pillaging the heck outta this place’s sweet electronic booty.  But first, impromptu fashion show!!”

And the uptick in giggling confirms: tooootally unorchestrated and definitely not at your expense.  Sigh.  Lucky Jake and Callie, with their weird accented _dear me oh my, crowds are still terribly overwhelming I’m afraid_ and their not getting suckered into group expeditions with base lies.

You dump the clothes out of your arms onto the little bench thing, because hooks and hangers take forever and you do not care.  None caring.  Then you sneak a look at Dirk and okay, no, now you’re pretty sure he’s in fact flipping his shit.  The whole _I’m not breathing! scenery doesn’t breathe!_ shtick is kind of a dead giveaway.  You know he’s pretty awkward in groups even on a good day, but seriously.  Dude, chill?

“Dude, chill,” you tell him, both out loud and with your face like a non-robot who can use his eyebrows to send a secret message like _nobody knows or cares that we fuck!_  A secret message that _somebody_ lost the decoder ring for, because Dirk is still doing a tree impression.  Fine!  Fine.  Know what makes trees bend?  Wind, motherfuckers.

You walk the single step across the stall, fully intending to grab the clothes from his arms and throw them on the bench thing next to yours.  Except as soon as your fingers brush his, he suddenly remembers what breathing is, but in a stupid way, like he’s trying to max out his lung capacity stat or something equally nerdy and fake.  And it’s so dumb, it really is, but you are keenly aware of how your own breath hitches just the tiniest bit, and how very very attractive it is when he breathes hard.

But you don’t get to dwell on how close to each other you are, because surprise!  He steps away as Roxy and Jade’s voices ring loud and clear through the mirror-side divider, babbling about the merits of tucking and various techniques.  Bluh.  Brain no.  Why, lack of soundproofing, why.

“Let’s just change and get out of here, yeah?” Dirk says, like he wasn’t hyperventilating that your fingers barely touched two seconds ago.  He pulls his shirt off over his head with his shades still on like a fucking douche and they stay perfectly in place and ohhhh man you wanna wreck him.

He leans over as he drops his shirt on the floor and starts rifling through the clothes he got saddled with, and dammit.  Dammit he’s hot.  And there’s this one really nice spot, in that nice muscle-y area where back of neck joins shoulder, where his concealer has rubbed off and you can see a hint of black-and-blue from your teeth last week.  Fuck, if he’s gotten that careless with his obsessive makeup routine, it really has been too long.  Touch-up time.

Before you can reconsider, you reach out a single finger and just barely brush the nape of his neck.  He full-body _shudders_ in that hypersensitive push-of-a-button way, and you know you have the biggest shit-eating grin on your face when he whirls around to glare at you all indignant and how-dare-you.  You just step a little closer, raise your eyebrows at him in silent question, and relish the guilty way he hunches his shoulders.  Oh, he is so caught.  His little fake-neck-hiding technique is useless against the merciless dexterity of Egbert fingers.  Not to mention your ridiculous but extremely useful full foot on him.  Can’t escape the mile of height difference, short stuff.

You look him up and down, dwelling on the lovely bare plane of his chest, its rise and fall, the twin scars and the other less surgical ones.  He’s shivering just from being looked at and you will never be over how easy it is to get him flustered.  And wrecked.  You are definitely not forgetting about the wrecking part.

You place your hand over where a nipple would be on anyone but Dirk Fucking Strider and shove him against the wall.

“Everything okay in there???” comes the _instant_ worrying chorus from Jade and Jane on either side of you.  Dirk goes tense again, eyes panicking at you from over the top of his shades; you just roll your eyes at him and push the teensiest bit harder.

“Whoops!” you laugh, breezy and careless like you’re not pinning somebody to a changing room wall with full intent to fuck them brainless.  “Just tripped over these stupidass pants!”

“HA!!!  Seriously, John??”  Oh no.  Oh no, Terezi, why are you also next door, _ughhhhhhhh_ not fucking Terezi not now that is way too confusing for your actual pants situation.  “What kind of wriggler falls over because of his pants??”

“Excuse fucking you!”  Oh thank god for Karkat, holy shit, best bro, move over Dave because seriously where are you, you useless piece of shit wing man.  “Not all of us have the freakishly proportioned lower body structure to both effortlessly slide on skinny jeans _and_ slot them into place over hips shaped like the jutting wings of a particularly malnourished cluckbeast!”

Annnnd off they go with the run-ons full of dubious word choices.  Whew.

And here _you_ go, all cocky reassuring grin as you reach up with your free hand and slip his dumb shades off to set them aside.  Much better.  Not that he’s all that extra expressive without his eye shield, sigh, but it does make him more vulnerable, and that is a huge plus in your book.  Now, while the un-glossed state of his eyes says he’s not nearly as desperate for you as ideal (yet), there’s more than enough want there to keep pushing.  Good; you really want to push him.

He’s already bent at this great angle, with the bench-thing pressing into the back of his knees and your hand pinning his chest to the wall above-and-behind it, and it’s just too easy to slot your knee between his and smiiile at the way he arches up all off-balance and seeking.

You lean in towards the old bruise you spotted and in sync he tilts his head out of your way, exposing his neck to you in the special Dirk language that means _yes, yeah, please_.  You oblige and sink your teeth into the meat of his shoulder, clamping down hard.  He twitches, tenses; twitches some more; finally goes lax under your mouth.  Mm.  This is a good part.  You hold a little longer, a few more beats, then release, licking at the bite and instantly regretting it because bluhhhh, makeup on your tongue, gross no why.

You totally conceal the way you swipe at your tongue with your knuckles because you are smooth like that, and also because Dirk has his eyes closed because you’re mega awesome at this.  Nice.  Onward.

All it takes is your thumb at his chin hinting he should tip his head the other way and he bends willingly, eagerly, stretching his shoulder backward and casting the neck muscles in sharp relief for best bite access.  Soooo easy.  You hover a moment, savoring how he’s drawn tight and waiting and holding himself for you, so into this so very quickly.  He does this impatient little flex thing like the demanding needy fuck he is, and you grin another second against his skin before biting down as hard as you fucking can.

Dirk lets out this half-voiceless groan and _fuck_ , yessss, that’s so good, and so is the way he’s slapping his hand over his mouth trying to keep quiet but like hell you’ll go that easy on him.  You grab his wrist and pull it down, and when he tries to keep it you just tighten your jaw and he loses all his resistance at once.

He melts beneath you and against the wall and oh, shit, now you have to press really hard to hold him up because his legs have gone totally useless.  You pin his arm to the wall as extra leverage and his head literally lolls to the side a little, his chest going concave from exhaling all it can, wow yes.  You suspend him there for a bit, just shifting your teeth backward and forward over the taut lines under his skin, coaxing out little weak jerks that melt back into hanging there all limp and loose and yours.  Fuck.

When you draw back to admire your handiwork, no mouth full of cosmetics this time, it occurs to you that maybe you should have checked if Dirk brought said cosmetics with him.  ’cause yeah, those teeth marks?  Pretty damn deep, and though it’ll take a half hour or so to show -- as _carefully_ learned from prior experience -- that is going to be a badass bruise.  Hey, guys, check out this magically appearing hickey that happened in the middle of a group outing!  On the dude with zero intimate prospects!  Wacky, huh??  Maybe it was a ghoooost!  Better take a cast of the dental imprint for evidence!  Oh jesus fuck they totally would and you’d be double-screwed.

Though.  Honestly?  The human-shaped lump of silly putty in your hands is making all this second-guessing yourself feel pretty, well, silly.

You ease up the pressure of your grip to let him slide bonelessly down the wall until his ass hits the bench-shelf, or, that’s the plan except _BANG FUCK_ something LOUD thuds into the divider beside you and jolts the door open and you completely fucking drop Dirk in your hurry to slam it closed and _actually lock it like a professional._

“Whoopsie!!!” call Jane and Terezi in terrifying tandem.  “Our bad!  Tripped over each other’s pants!!”

“Why is everyone suddenly stricken with lower garment related difficulties,” Kanaya is kind enough to narrate, in a perfectly enunciated voiceover to your spontaneous-combustion-slash-heart-attack.  Is her bewilderment genuine?  Sarcastic?  Or yet another piece of the horrible plot ensnarling you?  Who knows!!  Not John Egbert, that’s for sure!!!

It’s fine.  This is fine.  Nothing’s on fire, no tantrums are happening.  And [nobody knows shitfuck](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ABGiqizwCso)!!!!

So of course this is when a little foil square decides to sail over the top of the door and pap you straight in the face.

“Yo, not too late for the party am I, had to take a quick pit stop,” comes the dulcet tones of your former best bro and current arch-fucking-nemesis.  “Rev your engines and kick it into high gear cuz I’m back in the race and it’s time to burn rubber.  Specifically latex.  If that was somehow unclear.”

Dave.

Dave why are you always so horrible.

You lock eyes with a very sober Dirk over the rainbow smiley-faced monstrosity at your feet.  A mutual understanding passes between you.  A solemn vow.  Of murder.

The giggles are everywhere again.

“Yo,” states Dirk, voice pitched to carry.  His tone reveals nothing and his eyes promise blood.  “Glad you could make it.”

“And with gifts!!”  Jade is entirely too enthusiastic about this.  “You shouldn’t have!!”

“Indeed, dearest brother.”  You can hear Rose’s lips pursing from here.  “You really shouldn’t have.”

“What can I say, my knight senses were tingling, all ‘hey Spidey-Dave the universe needs more protection and it is up to you to provide,’ so like a good radioactive superguy I had to heed the call.  As it says on the tinfoil:  you’re welcome.”

You’re not sure what penetrates first -- Kanaya’s innocent “What is this tiny object for?” or Terezi’s “Will this really taste like rainbows???” or Jane’s scandalized “ _Grand-nephew!”_ \-- but somewhere in there you figure out this was not a pinpoint strike but a carpet bombing and _wow_.  Okay.  Freaky random happenstance!  Now it can be hilarious.

“Geez Dave,” you quip on automatic, “I appreciate the thought, but if you really think I’m that unprepared, you should know that just one is nowhere near enough!”  Ahahaha, Dirk’s eye tic thing is acting up and it’s sort of adorable.

“Sorry babe, ’m not made of boonbucks anymore and the vigilante gig don’t pay too well -- plus have you _seen_ what a mess all that webshit makes, talk about getting sticky white goodness everywhere, I mean do we even know if that’s limited to hand jizz, or is it a full package deal, like does that come out of—”   Cue mild choking sound.  “Uh well anyway pretty sure I’m gonna need as many of these as I can carry for my own personal use.  One per happy couple’s all the benevolence I can spare.”

Karkat’s screeching is unholy even for him.  Roxy is squealing about how this makes her and Jade a _couple_ now, oh god why that word, why any of this.

Dirk stands up, turns around and wordlessly starts taking his pants off.

He’s not wearing anything under them.

WELL.

Consider the sexy train back on track then.

Also?  He’s bending over _far_ more than is necessary.  Like practically in half.  It’s an obscene show of flexibility and now your fingers are twitching to throttle him for being a tease.  He steps out of his pants slower than you thought was possible.

And then he glances over his shoulder at you all composed and daring and fuck no, you didn’t do allll that work turning him to jelly just for him to get cocky again.

In one fluid motion you step up / sink your fingers into the creases where thigh meet abdomen / pull him flush back against you / lean along the horizontal length of his back / dig your teeth into that same well-bitten bruise.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he hisses, loud for his usual level softspoken voice, and ohoho was he not expecting you to rise to the bait?  Please, does he even think.  But aww, his hands have already reached back to latch onto your thighs and hold you tight against his ass, like he’s afraid you’re going somewhere in the next half-a-second.  So clingy.  You give an experimental roll of your hips and earn a _god_ and some definite attempts at grinding back into you which, no no, he should know better -- that’s not your deal -- and you just hold him in place instead.

“Careful there!” you say conversationally, making sure to breathe against his ear for the way he shivers when you do.  “I know you’re not used to dressing up nice or anything, but zippers can really—” you punctuate your next word by pinching sharply into the grooves beneath your hands and he jolts under you with another curse, “— _hurt_ , you know.  Do you need Kanaya’s help?”

“I would be happy to lend my assistance in the pursuit of a more.  Er.  Dignified, appearance,” comes her immediate response from the corner of the room, like you knew it would.  Finally, a use for freaky troll hearing.  Dirk freezes up, like you also knew he would, and you just squeeze his thighs and nudge insistently forward.  He seems to catch on because after a moment he speaks up.

“Thanks, but I think I can handle a few fancy garments,” is his answer, not the least bit shaky or unbalanced.  Very impressive!  That deserves another rock of the hips.  “Even if they _are_ actively trying to kill me,” he adds, his voice not quite strained, though the look he shoots back at you definitely is.  You bat your eyelashes innocently.

“I dunno, sure looks like you’re having a hard time.”  You let a finger stray inward, teasing, and he does the reflexive legs-pressing-together thing for a second before easing them back apart for you.  Heh.  Good boy.  You decline the invitation, however, opting instead to trail that finger up past navel and chest to trace his oh-so-sensitive collarbones.

“Nah,” he breathes, rather less convincing now.  “Nothing the Di-Stri can’t manage.  You’ve met me, right?  Manager extraordinaire.  Of the micro sort, anyway.  And robo.  Hell, anything that doesn’t involve actual other people, I’ve got that shit on llllock.”  Nice almost-stutter, very subtle, much believability.  “Consider it so utterly managed it’s the stuff of corporate wet dreams, right up there with designer suede briefcases and diamond-encrusted tie bars and shoe polish fumes.  Suits be swoonin’ over my resumé, all ‘Ooh, Mister Strider, won’t you save our multi-gazillion dollar franchise from total devastation by lending your orderly touch to our supply list?’  And like the benevolent deity of controlling shit that I am, I say: ‘Let me lay hands.’  I’m pretty fuckin’ competent, is the takeaway here.  And I’m not about to let myself be defeated by some bougie slacks and high-col _lar—_ ”  Whoops, did you just grab his throat mid-monologue?  Hm.  “ _—ed shirts_.”

“Really,” you deadpan.  “Because it seems to me you’re in a bit of trouble.”

He swallows under your grip, silent, which is almost a shame.  You’d like to hear him babble and try to keep his voice from trembling some more; it’s pretty hot.  Not to mention hilarious.  But, well, maybe it’s for the best to shift directions at this point.

Besides, this is murder on your back.

You straighten and pull him upright by the throat, winning some nice strangled noises, and oh hey there’s a mirror right there, isn’t that neat to turn him towards.  What a nice full-frontal view you can get this way.

He looks really good like this, actually, all his oranges and browns highlighted by the blue backdrop of your clothes, the marks on his skin almost as obvious as his total nudity, everything just super visible and seen.  And he’s doing the awkward fists-by-his-side thing because he totally doesn’t know what to do with himself, the doof.  Oh, this is definitely a great idea.  You can even make eye contact while you choke him from behind.

Except oh dear, someone’s shy all of a sudden!

“Relax, Dirk!”  Your tone is chipper and cheerful and so very oblivious as to how anything could possibly be wrong, even as you stroke a finger along the underside of his jaw.  He’s looking everywhere but the mirror which, ahhuh, sure, mega allowed.  Go ahead, just pretend this isn’t happening, do the wrong headspace thing, make a guy feel reallll appreciated.  Humph.  Good thing you know how to counter.

“I mean it!” you say, voice sulky even as you lean over his shoulder and wink at your grin in the mirror.  “You’re among friends.”

Well that sure gets his attention, if the way his eyes snap to your reflection is any measure.  Hello, eyes.  Wow.  They’re really round right now, and big, and you never would’ve thought you could find oranges sexy but hey, way weirder shit has happened.  Wayyyy weirder.  So fuck off, kinkshaming!!  At least your pants are probably more interested in the heady blend of fear and hope and want than, like, actual fruit.  You’re hardly _Dave_ , after all.

But anyway um, okay, Dirk really does look more scared than usual for some reason.  Huh.  You don’t think it’s anything you did though?  The only really new thing is— actually, yeah, speaking of Dave, and being among friends, is this about— goddammit it totally is isn’t it.  Argghhhhh shitfuckballs.

Yep.  Yep, Dirk’s doing that thing where he’s both leaning back into you all _hold me_ and also busy holding himself like he’s containing a deadly nuclear reactor with a force field of his skin, because ohhhhhhhh noooooooo, heaven forbid Dirk Timebomb Strider ever forget for a microsecond to protect everyone around him from himself and especially from his scary destructive wanting things.  Not without first talking the entire universe into a coma with some lecture like _Ethical Dialectics: On Community Boundaries, Consent, and Negotiations Thereof,_ then looking around and going _ahhah, now I am alone, as is fair and just, for it is demonstrably evidenced: truly my very existence is oppressive._  Christ.

And yep again, now he’s looking away towards a certain droning douche mumble.  Idiocy Confirmed™.

So, fine, got this.  Still with the holding; now to interrupt the stupid.

Your smile softens and you bump your nose against his hair.  His dumb, crunchy K-pop hair.  This guy.  Thiiiiiiiis fucking guy.  When did he make you fond of him this much.  Rude.

“Hey.  Heyyyyyyyy.”  He blinks up at you in the mirror with those wide blank citrus eyes and you sigh.  Look at this clueless worrybutt.  Here, check out this clue that beaned you in the face five minutes ago, remember that?  With your left foot you nudge Dave’s ironically considerate gift and raise your eyebrows, adopting your best _look, look at how okay everybody is, check out this solid actual proof which is also a gay smiley condom_ face.

He’s…still not getting it, is he.  Right.  Well, you can do blunt.

“You know we all care about you and, like, maybe even kinda like you a bit, right?”

The whole gang chimes in on cue, drowning the room in a resounding chorus of _you’re loved you dumbass!!_ and _let people help you once in awhile!_ and _we do indeed appreciate your continued existence_ and _i mean yeah but way to make it sound lame guys_ and even one _get naked already!!!!_ because thanks, Terezi, helpful as always.  Mostly good job, team.  High fives for everyone who can face the right direction for them.

Dirk’s blinking a lot more now, and it’s a little hard to tell if it’s his eye tic or mirror glare or an actual emotion, but the way his fists loosen and open is a pretty good sign.  You let go of his hip and catch one of his hands, and he laces his fingers through yours without hesitating.  Awesome.  Dirkbrain whisperer powers, activated.  He’s even breathing easier, like it’s a natural bodily function he doesn’t have to min/max.

Maybe later you can finally get him breathing harder in the fun way.

You pet a thumb along his chin, soothing, playing with the edgy spike piercing he has there, and he catches your thumb with his lips for a moment.

Oho.  Maybe _now_.

You press in a little, just a test, see where he’s at, and that is definitely tongue, wow.  Okay then.  No need to ask where you’re at -- this is still totally doing it for you.  That leaves one bit that needs asking.

“So, hey, can I give you a hand there?”

Those must be some magic words because his mouth just opens wide up for you in the pretty much universal sign for _fill me now_.  His hand tightens in yours, hot, urging you onward.  But noooo no no, you’re a little burnt out on the assuming and guessing things for one afternoon.  Time for this to get explicit.  Consent-wise.

You shoot him your best smile in the mirror.  “All you gotta do is ask, buddy!”

Dirk licks at your thumb, light but pleading and getting more insistent.  You just cock your head at your reflections and blink innocently.  He mumbles something completely inaudible and moves to take you into his mouth but nope, you pull your hand away to hover an inch from his face.  Not allowed!  His next mutter is almost definitely just swearing, aww.  C’mon, lil guy, you can do it!

His face twists up in this way that’s kinda really pretty, and you let him look down at the floor.  He squeezes your hand again and you squeeze back, and he inhales like he’s about to dive into the deep end.

“Please,” he breathes, all pained and cracking and oh fuck that’s all you’ve ever wanted.

What a good fucking boy.

You reward him with two fingers, and he takes them with this tiny noise of relief that has you instantly pushing them further.  In goes the third and yeah, the fourth too, right down to the knuckles, there you go, fill that hungry mouth right up.  He closes his eyes as you slide back along his tongue and -- ah, there it is, there’s the spot that makes him gag around you.  You catch him when he stutters forward, your clasped left hands together at his chest, holding him up so you can better push your fingers in and out of his mouth.

God, he’s good like this.  Stretched out in the mirror with no more self-conscious hiding.  Eyelids aflutter, head gently bobbing in time, all these little full-body hitches forward every few strokes when you press deeper.  Tears gathering in the corners of his eyes so shiny and inviting.  Just from this.  This quickly.

Still fingerfucking his pretty wet mouth, you take his hand in yours and slide it down, guiding it along chest to side to crease of thigh.  You press his fingers into the groove there, hold, then draw away, trailing your fingernails back up his side.  His hand stays where you put it.  Doesn’t twitch a bit, even as you brush his gag reflex again and set him heaving against you.  His other hand hangs open and loose at his side, willing, waiting.  Yours.  Too bad you can’t really reach it.

Except mm, ideas.

You pull your fingers from his mouth and watch.  It’s barely half a breath before he’s leaning after them, blind and seeking; another beat before his damp eyelashes start to flicker towards open.  You give him your unwet hand and instantly he’s back to closed eyes and rhythm and nothing else.

Now your right hand is free to trace a little wet line from the corner of his filled mouth, back along jaw, down the side of his neck to find his lovely blooming bruise.  You smear his spit over the faint colors, smile at the mirror, and time your hands so you push and hold in both at once, one deep and pinning his tongue full down and the other digging into the tender spot of his neck.

That’s a winning combo move for sure: it nets you a tiny cry and a jerk and sets him trembling from trying to hold still.  Or from trying to move, or most probably from trying to pick between the two, which.  No.  That is not a decision he gets to make.

You rub the saliva into his bruise a little more, rub matching circles in his tongue, and when his shaking starts to smooth out you fuck your fingers down his throat.

He chokes around you and you just bar your arm across the top of his chest and hold him firm.  You keep fucking that inch of throat as he gags and heaves and retches, tears streaming down his face, and only draw back when his loose hand fists in the air so you know you’ve hit the limit.  His tongue follows your fingertips out of his mouth and you keep them just within reach, letting him strain to lap after you, pretty strings of drool webbed thick between your fingers.

You wipe your hand on his cheek and he lets out this groaning sigh, almost too faint to make out in all the background voices and noise but all you care to hear.  You dip your fingers to his tongue again, swirl them in the pool of saliva there, paint it across the other side of his face to mingle with the tears there.  He’s gone light under your hands, swaying and airy.  Mm.  You drink in the weight of his breathing, let it fill your chest.  Hot and buoyant.

The reflection in the mirror shows you this perfect blend of lost and home, drifting and resting, exactly the kind of floaty and thoughtless you were going for.  He’s doing the eyes half-open unseeing thing, no longer trying to keep them shut but not really blinking, even when you brush the dreamy tears from their corners and feed them to him.  God.  Eye-glossing has been achieved and it is glorious.

You slip your arm from around his chest; he sways in place while you reach down and take his dangling wrist, guide it gently behind him, nestle it behind his back and between his legs, an echo and mirror of the front hand still in place and so well-behaved.  He’s perfectly pliant beneath your touch, so happy to get a chance to yield.  You pet his tongue as you pose him nice and pretty for you, your custom mannequin that you get to paint black and blue and bend in all these fun directions.

His breathing is soft but heavy when you start probing into his mouth again.  You keep everything slow, idle, just two fingers scissoring back and forth, forth and back, like time’s been suspended.  Like you’re in this alternate plane of existence, everything flowing on around you but not touching, like you’ve phased out of mundane reality into a paranormal bubble.  Like you’ve become sex ghosts.  Which means the slick around and between your fingers is slime.  Hot, sexy slime.  You play with it some more, marveling at how thick it is, how it stretches, the way it drizzles out of Dirk’s mouth down to the floor in fat droplets like an endless magical fountain.

And.  Marveling at Dirk.  Because.  Just -- wow, man.  That peace in his face?  The look he’s got.  Yeah.  Best word is definitely otherworldly.

“Earth to John!!!  Come in, John!!!!  This is your mother planet calling!!!!!!”

_Fuck,_ Jade, rude much, what the hhhhhhhhow long has she been knocking.

“Egbert, so fucking help me, if you don’t drag your lower-garment-bungling ass out here in the next thirty seconds and strut it down the metaphorical meowbeast-walk dressed to demolish an entire army of malevolent sentient white tuxedos, I will take it on myself to avenge Kanaya’s crassly defecated-upon dreams by carving your repulsive squishy exoskeleton into one continuous fabric scrap to serve her as a new curtain!”

So, bubble popped, then.

“Kinda got my hands full in here!” you call over your shoulder as Dirk picks _this_ perfect moment to have his legs buckle and give out under you.  Augh, the drama queen is strong in this one.  You catch him this time at least, and quick-gauge his reflection as you carefully lower him to his knees.  He’s…really out of it.  _Really_ really.

“Twenty-one.  Twenty.  Nineteen.”

Your handful of Dirk is now Formally Kneeling on the floor and aww geez what do you do with this.  They’re gonna ask _questions_.

You whip your shirt off one-handed and toss it over the stall door aaaand your glasses go with it, goddamn.  “Busy being naked now!!” you shout after it.  Read: don’t bust the door down, guys, please have morals.

“Fifteen.  Fourteen.”

Okay!  None morals.  Do you have any room to complain, no you don’t.

You cheat horribly and windy thing into whatever was on the top of your pile (and sourly hope it clashes).  Everything is blurry as fuck without your glasses, so you just kinda pat your hands around til you have Dirk’s face between them, there we go, okay buddy time to wake up and join the conscious.

But when you lean in, tried-and-true _safeword_ on the tip of your tongue ready to jerk him back to social responsibility, Dirk’s forehead touches yours and his mouth is moving, and it’s only through magical breath powers that you can make out what he’s less-than-whispering over and over:   _thank you._

 “Four.  Three.”

Oh god you can’t rip him out of this.  Not for a stupid reason like ‘reputation.’

_Stay_ , you mouth, and you barely feel him nod before you’re over the door.

 

* * *

 

Ten grueling minutes later (yes Roxy, your ass looks great in that skirt and Callie will love it, no really; thanks for the concern, Rose, but it seems Dirk is just too small for normal people clothes! who’da thought; sorry Kanaya, banana yellow is _totally_ factually the best pants color, also you didn’t even pick these out so who did anyway and who planned this; oh my god when will Terezi stop snapping your teen-Nanna’s suspenders), you manage to break away from the gang and spirit yourself back into the stall.

Dirk is.  Uh.

He’s, pretty much how you left him, but.  More.

You tiptoe around the puddle of drool and bend down to look him in the eyes, and holy crap.  You’ve done the _don’t move while I go fuck off for a bit_ thing before, so you were expecting him to be extra worked up, but this is.    _Extra_.  There is nobody home in there.  No begging, or needing, or any sign of recognizing you’re an inch away or that you exist at all.

Howwww are you gonna bring him down from this oh man.

Orgasms, right?  Those do a reset thing.  Because biology.  Even Dirk Strider biology, you’re pretty sure?  Yes, that is definitely how that works, no problem.  You are still totally on top of this and did not bite off more than you can chew, and are certainly not making kink puns to yourself because wow that would be dumb.

Objective: get Dirk off, slip him back into human mode and rejoin the others, finally get to the video game section???, and probably fap to the memory of all this for the next month.  Good plan.

This is really, really not how you expected your day would go, but you are so not complaining.

You glance at the door to check it’s still locked, heck yes professionalism, then gently take a hand and tip his chin up.

Dirk whines so loud the fucking clerks at the cash registers must know what’s going on.

“Holy shit, somebody dying in there?” Dave’s voice rings out and your innards do the MGS exclamation point jump complete with sound effect.  _Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa._

“We’re fine!” you shout over Rose smarming about Shakespeare.  “Just, might’ve cinched his belt a little too tight,” that is a shitty half-lie son get your head in the game, “surprised him I think!”  Fuck, just, that, forget that happened, retcon, undo, never happened, doesn’t matter.  You hold a finger to Dirk’s lips for shushhhhhhhh; you can see his throat work like he’s swallowing more noises, and then he does this long, slow blink that you hope is agreement.  His eyelashes are really pretty, and wet, and distracting, and you don’t really end up noticing if anybody else is trying to interrupt.

Whoa, wait a sec -- he’s not even the tiniest bit tense, is he, and that was a _Dave interruption_.  That’s.  Super impressive.  Goddamn you’re good at this.

You pet his face for a bit, reassuring and soft but firm, and watch him breathe, how he doesn’t even try to rock into his still perfectly-posed hands.  You dip down to pet his neck, side and back and all around, and when he shivers but stays silent your heart does this swelling thing because oh, so good.  That’s what you mouth at him, _so good_ and _that’s right_ and _my good boy_ , petting harder when he shakes and gentler when he leans into your hand for support.  This always looked so boring in movies but you could play with Dirk for hours.

Mm.  But you do also want to get to play actual video games today, so.

You take his chin in hand again, _so quiet so good for me_ , turn his head, make sure he’s watching as you step away.  He leans after you, _shh, I’m right here_ , and you take your time sitting on the edge of the narrow bench, savoring the way he’s holding himself back while still managing to look totally relaxed.  When you’re sure you’ll be able to conjure this image alone later -- with all the details like the wet at his knees and the smeared concealer on his shoulder and the rise and fall of his chest -- you catch his eyes, cock your head, and pat your leg.

He sort of half-falls onto his hands and crawls over to you without breaking eye contact, but when he puts a hand on your leg he startles and stares down at your pants.  You raise your eyebrows at him but he’s busy rediscovering the magic of corduroy, apparently?  It is actually adorable how he’s brushing the grain back and forth like it’s the coat of a Christmas miracle pony.  Aw, lil texture-seeker.  He’s even rubbing his face on it now, which, iiiis oh my god getting way too close to your crotch _nope_.

You literally plant your palm in his face and push his head away from the junk area.  The stone zone.  The _maybe if I had my silicone_ sector.  Jesus tapdancing christ the no.

Dirk’s holding very still and waiting for your signal, because even when he’s so out of it he forgets the rules about lap-diving, he tries so hard to be good.  Like damn, how has he not had multiple aneurysms.

Alright, enough with the false starts and the delays.  You are going to fuck this poor boy’s brains into behaving.

_Up_ , you tell him, pointing to your knee.  He moves at once, fluid instead of his usual choppy, flowing up and straddling your leg.  You place your hands around his waist -- they fit almost the whole way round, he’s such a tiny little thing -- and without any further non-fucking ado, grind him down onto your leg.

His mouth falls open, soundless, and you have to tell him _breathe_ before he’ll let himself exhale slow and silent.  _Relax_ , you order, dragging him along the rough fabric of your pants, and when his chest hitches and his legs try not to splay you lift him up and do it again.  He’s gone weak in the neck and his arms are loose at his sides but he’s still keeping his eyes fixed on you, cautious and searching for something and you know it’s the same thing as always, and he really does deserve it, so you give it to him.

“Good,” you say aloud, voice heavy with all your approval and pride and permission, and he makes this not-sound and finally lets his head tip back and legs go wide.

From there it’s simple to guide his hips into an easy rhythm, down and slide and up and back, and though he still needs you to hold him from falling, his body figures out the flow of it soon enough.  Then you have him riding you proper, get to make his movement stutter when you rock your leg up into him and break cadence, get to pull him down harder or keep him paused above you longer than expected and watch him wriggle in your grip.  He’s still so obediently quiet but no longer passive, now, the twists of his hips actively working with and against you as they seek greater friction.  You suppress the instinct to tease him more – seriously, that would draw this out forever -- and settle instead for letting him fuck himself on you.

When he shudders once and grabs your shoulders and starts really rutting your leg, you tighten your hands painfully hard around his waist and tell him all those things like _c’mon, you can do it, been so good, earned it,_ and it builds and builds for forever and ever and he’s shaking and maybe and almost and _c’mon boy_ and _there_ , there, ride it out, keep feeling it, no pulling away yet, get it all out, every last tremor, there we go, almost done, alright, that’s it, that’s good, that was so good, it’s okay, everything’s okay.

You help him off and onto the bench beside you, and when he leans against the wall instead of you, you know he’s been put back together right.  You give him a goofy smile and sag against the wall yourself, because damn that was effort.  So much focus.  You deserve a trophy.  And at least two achievements.

It’s not even a minute before he’s sliding his stupid shades back on (oh yeah, good thing you didn’t sit him on those, another point for Egbert) and reaching for his pants like an ungrateful asshole.  You maybe huff just a little bit, and he turns and looks at you over the top of his shades, holding up a tiny tube of concealer.  Oh.

“Care to give me a hand here?” he asks in blank monotone.  You punch him in the shitty tattoo.  Smartass.

He inclines his head in what experience says is the _we good?_ question which, from Dirk in this context, means more like _how are we, how are you, did I do anything, should I, any top drop?_ and your eyeroll is automatic.  How many times did you just say things were okay, you are done.  No more feelings now.

“Let’s just change and get out of here, yeah?” you throw back at him as you take the tube and, in yet another stroke of absolute genius, squirt it at his face.

 

* * *

 

A few minor mishaps later, it is _finally_ time to migrate to the video game section, clothing purchases in hand.

Dirk does his roundabout expression of gratitude thing by occupying Terezi's attention the second he sees her, which is way better than talking even though you just know he’ll try to make you later.  Key word being ‘try.’  Right now you get to hang back and watch them bond over hideous eyesores.  (Is that…bowling alley carpet as a polo?  Also, even though you watched him fix his hair, you still don't understand how it exists.  And why are they friends.)  Sounds like she’s also heckling him for not finding any clothes of his own, which hehehehe.  Wonder how long it’ll take the staff to find the wet, caked-in-tan pile you left in the stall topped with Dave’s little smiley-faced gift.  They really should bar you from the store for that.  Maybe you’ll come back in a disguise later and buy a clean pair of banana corduroys, though, they were awesome.  Or you could just figure out how to alchemize them.  Way less convoluted.

Roxy’s paired off with Kanaya busily talking about how to reinforce her wardrobe to withstand cherub cuddles, and Jane and Rose are being creepy together, so you fall back with the others.  Apparently it’s debate time!

“No!  Karkat, we are _not_ letting you buy pants that tall, you should just wear overalls!!  Dave how could you let this happen??”

“Hey, not my bad, Jade, I was off being a literal superhero and when I got back I wasn’t allowed entry into the Casa de Vantas for public nudity times.  Harsh.  These are the sacrifices I make to defend the virtue of others.”

“Oh, please.  As if there weren’t at least two extraneous decencyblocks to shield the community from your vulgar fleshy carcass.  Besides, you were too engrossed in acting out some bizarre reverse-drone fantasy to stay fucking still and it was distracting as fuck.”

You don’t trip.  Nope.  You just start hovering a bit, is all, because walking is for chumps.  Also, your voice is perfectly smooth and normal volume when you conversationally ask, “There were extra stalls?”

Dave and Jade pause and trade this Look.  “Oh yeah, almost forgot,” they say in tandem, then do a High Fistbump Into Explosion and turn and present you with two side-by-side fists.  Uh.

“Do _not_ make the wriggler mistake of leaving them hanging,” Karkat calls from where he’s barreled on ahead, bearing his precious cargo toward the cashiers like this is his one chance for freedom.

Welp.  Bye video games.  Nice to almost meet you.

The last thing you hear is your archnemesis calling _give us the bunp, man,_ as you windy thing the fuck away.

**Author's Note:**

> bonus [outtake](http://epochryphal.tumblr.com/post/147500763957/sex-ghosts-outtake) and [trivia](http://epochryphal.tumblr.com/post/147500988667/sex-ghosts-trivia-and-tidbits-khemi-john), and stayyyyy tuuuuuned


End file.
